Squidmate

Squawk, Chapter Three

Be Advised: The following chapter contains naughty words and adult situations. Readers disinclined toward the relevant passages may wish to sense their approach, avert their eyes and resume reading when the coast is clear.

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Once they learned what happened, you couldn’t blame them if nobody on the island wished you a Merry Squidmate. Nothing spoils the appetite for merriment like a fresh moist corpse, and this particular one had been well-loved the island over before completing its rite of passage into corpsehood.

The previous Squidmate’s greatest controversy had been the quarrel that broke out between the puppeteer and the inkman when a mislaid ink pail nearly caused the drowning death of Antony Spelt, the Pigwench City Puppet Theatre’s star marionette. But this year, a murder! Word hadn’t got round yet, but once it did it would be a real fertilized-egg-in-the-nog, and by nightfall, holiday spirit was sure to be in woefully short supply.

Squidmate, as you may have gathered, was when giant squids from every ocean got together to reproduce, and to that end they converged on Pigwench Island and its encircling musk reefs, which every autumn released an aphrodisiacal spice that set their gigantic squid libidos ablaze. The ensuing spectacle was breathtaking, a unique phenomenon for the island, but imprisoned its inhabitants within an inky ring of carnal ferocity lasting several days, during which all sea trade came to a halt. No ship dared to sail near the island, and no docked ship dared to set off.

This wasn’t something to be taken lightly. A single squid could destroy a sailing vessel without bothering to look up from its newspaper¹. A pair of them could destroy the city. A dozen could reduce the island to splinters. And there were hundreds. Nobody knew precisely what would happen, but a strong respect for their wrath had been maintained for centuries. An ancient tablet, found in a cave by the island archeologist, spoke of the event thusly:

And verily shalt thou never—and, for emphasis—ever do, but see that thou actively don’t do—at any time, nor shalt thou entertain thoughts of doing, but vigorously keepest thy mind on matters other than that which, in any conceivable manner might, with even the slightest of possibilities, mildly irritate or even somewhat vex a squid whilst it knoweth other squids during The Time of The Great Making of More Squids, lest ye incur the torment of a thousand deaths and several things which are far far—and, for emphasis—far worse than death itself, things of which it is forbidden to detail on this tablet, but things of which we doth now think silently to ourselves, and verily doth these things taketh away our appetites.

Tarquin had no desire to confront the horrors awaiting him at sea, but his fate would be sealed if he remained on the island: to hang from the neck until dead. Even longer if they felt he still hadn’t learned his lesson. There was certainly no turning himself in. He was, at least on the surface of things, guilty of murdering his brother. And nobody on the island was likely to believe his story about the puffin and the butter churn. Why, he scarcely believed it himself. Under the circumstances, he found he’d no choice but to brave the lusty black waters of the sea. The other constables would be mad to pursue him. And the mating had not yet fully begun, so he did stand a chance, however slim.

The sting of his brother’s death now waltzed about him to the tune of one of those gloomy ballads of which all the more suicidal minstrels seemed so irritatingly fond. But there wasn’t time to mourn. Tarquin’s afternoon had begun with a fall from the treasury office window, the prolonged repetition of the phrases ‘ouch’, ‘this really hurts’ and ‘this continues to really hurt’, and a hasty hobble into the shadows. All the while he busied himself trying to recall the details of his dream and how he came to acquire the beaked stone, which remained adamant that it had no immediate plans to do anything but dangle from his neck for the foreseeable future.

Now cold and fallow, the defiant little thing mocked him as it hung there at his broken heart. If he could get safely to the mainland, perhaps someone could help him sort it out. But a daylight escape would prove risky. The streets were alive with holiday bustle, so for the waning hours of the afternoon Tarquin kept to the many alleyways with which he’d grown acquainted in his years as a pickpocket.

“Keeping to the many alleyways with which you’d grown acquainted in your years as a pickpocket, are you?” came a voice. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you’ve just killed your brother.”

The voice echoed about the filth-covered walls lining the alley and caught Tarquin mid-skulk. It was a female voice, sullen yet playful, morose yet vivacious, a voice Tarquin knew all too well.

Winifred Glumm had taught Tarquin everything she knew about the picking of pockets, which he immediately forgot before teaching her everything he didn’t know about the making of love, giving the pair of them a rather impressive ineptitude for the respective arts of pick-making and love-pocketing.

“You dare show yourself here in this alley, in my alley, after betraying the rest of us by joining the constabulary?”

Winifred slipped like soiled silk from the shadows of an arched doorway into the slightly less dark shadows of the alley. Her dirty brown hair complimented the grime on her face and clothes exquisitely. She wore filth the way most women wore makeup or jewelry. It all matched, expertly put-together, stunning in its tattered, mired perfection.

“I haven’t betrayed anyone,” Tarquin insisted. “If anything you should be thanking me because now you have a friend on the insi—.”

The sudden collision of Winifred’s fist and Tarquin’s jaw sent him spinning down toward the cobblestones, which endeavored to impose themselves upon his cheek. His other cheek grew incensed and was in the midst of lodging a formal complaint when it found itself the nesting spot for Winifred’s muddy boot heel.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Were you saying something? I wasn’t listening.”

Winifred withdrew her heel and Tarquin stumbled to his feet.

“What was that for?!” he shouted, flinging spittle and tossing his arms about.

“Oh it’s nothing personal. I’m hoping to gain a reputation among the other thieves for standing up to authority.”

“I haven’t got any bloody authority!”

“No, but you’re a guard. Abusing you shows I’m not to be trifled with.”

Reaching for a tuft of his red lion tabard, Winifred yanked Tarquin to her soft sooty lips. Her tongue launched an invasion, and felt its way about his mouth like an earthworm groping at the depths of an abandoned mole den.

With helplessly flailing matchstick² arms, Tarquin struggled against the pull of her one-handed grip. He grunted, attempted to draw back, placed his hands on Winifred’s shoulders and pushed. She had always been stronger, both physically and in constitution. Tarquin thrashed about with a regrettably comfortable familiarity. This was precisely where their relationship had left off.

Winifred brought her free hand round the back of Tarquin’s neck as her tongue went about its inquest. What was she doing? He pushed again. His arms burned, trembled, and lacked the strength to carry on. But with a final heave and a pop he found himself staggering backward.

“Winifred, please! You should really consider more ladylike ways of showing affection,” he said, panting.

“You’re conflating affection with misdirection. I was trying to steal your little beaklace.”

“Well I wish you would steal it. I have no idea how it got there, and I think it just made me kill my brother.”

A large crack resounded through the alley as the flat of Winifred’s hand struck Tarquin’s cheek and sent him reeling into a dilapidated cart piled high with old cabbages.

“What have I told you about making excuses?” She wagged a finger in his face. “It’s always the inanimate object’s fault, isn’t it? You haven’t changed a bit. Still evading accountability. Nevertheless you won’t have to worry about any more surprise kisses from me. I’ve met someone else. A celebrity. And we’re terribly, terribly happy together.”

Though a new addition to the lexicon, the word ‘celebrity’ was commonly reserved for those in the theatre, royalty, artists, poets and people who could fit four whole eggs in their mouths.

“Celebrity, eh?” Tarquin brushed withered bits of cabbage from his tabard. “Well I’m sure if you refrain from abusing him you’ll both be very happy together.”

“Would you care to meet him?”

“No, no I wouldn’t care to meet him. I wouldn’t care to meet him in the slightest. I would, however, care to find a good place to hide until nightfall. I’m in a spot of trouble, you see, and—.”

“Oh I knew you would! Come with me.”

Winifred seized Tarquin by the hand and tugged him toward the same arched doorway from which she had emerged. Again she disappeared just inside, then from within instructed him to stand against the building with his back to the doorway, and insisted he didn’t dare peek.

Peek at what? Why all the secrecy and ceremony? Couldn’t this wait? Tarquin considered stealing into the shadows, but it was too risky. These were Winifred’s shadows. No matter how fast he ran or how secret his destination, she’d be waiting when he got there, whereupon her boot would occasion the inevitable cobblestone reunion.

As he waited, Tarquin removed his tabard and stuffed it into one of the barrels that cuddled together against the stone wall. The stench of piss mingled with the ever-present smell of dead rat as someone emptied a chamber pot from a nearby second story window.

Tarquin leaned his head against the wall and watched the clouds drift by through the narrow chasm between the rooftops above. The sky was dimming, and he hadn’t the time nor the inclination for celebrity introductions. This was certainly taking a great while. Perhaps, he mused, because the bloke was trying to fit four eggs into his mouth.

An insistent ‘ahem’ sprang from the doorway, and Tarquin spun round. Though Winifred was still concealed, her hand protruded into the alley holding two small pieces of wood nailed across each other in the middle.

“So you’ve begun an affair with a wooden X. I wish you both all the happiness in the world. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of skulking to do before nightfall.”

“Down here!”

Tarquin’s gaze followed several strings from the X toward the ground, where a small wooden man with a big chin, painted-on frown and finely tailored yellow suit tried in vain to place his tiny hands on his tiny hips.

Antony Spelt, the Pigwench City Puppet Theatre’s star marionette!

“Come here!” said the puppet, clumsily attempting to motion Tarquin closer.

Tarquin looked up at Winifred’s hand and back down at Antony Spelt.

“Go on, Tarquin, introduce yourself!” Winifred insisted. “He’s so handsome, isn’t he?”

Tarquin’s eyes went black and his face went flush. If this was in fact Antony Spelt, the same Antony Spelt who had delighted generations of children with his holiday antics year after year, the same Antony Spelt for whom the entire island held vigil when he battled for his life after nearly drowning in a bucket of ink, the same Antony Spelt the mere mention of whose name could soften the heart of even the most hardened Pigwench criminal, then Winifred had just committed a sin of such unutterable gravity, even Edwyck’s murder paled in comparison.

“Where in the blazes did you get that puppet?”

“Now don’t go forgetting your manners,” Winifred said. “I’ve told you before how rude it is not to address people directly when they’re standing right in front of you.”

Rude? To a few scraps of wood on some string? Well, they were celebrity scraps of wood on celebrity string. And Winifred wouldn’t let him go until he’d played along. Best to get it over with. He looked about the alley to see whether anyone might be watching.

“Um, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Spelt,” he sighed. “I’ve, uh, followed your career since I was a child.”

“Why thank you!” Winifred’s voice boomed with the affectation of masculinity as Antony Spelt made a great show of turning to his right and to his left.

But the voice suddenly fell into an urgent whisper.

“Call the authorities! I’ve been kidnapped!”

“What?” Tarquin threw a baffled glance at Winifred. “By whom?”

“Winifred! She’s been sending me obsessed letters for months now. They’ve been so disconcerting that I had to hire a bodyguard. But then what good is a marionette bodyguard against a proper person? Especially a marionette bodyguard with no puppeteer. What a waste of money!”

Tarquin passed a hand in front of Winifred’s eyes.

The puppet went on. “Last night I saw her as I was leaving the theatre. I began bouncing home as quickly as I could, but my puppeteer had sprained his ankle and couldn’t move very fast. Before he knew it she had knocked him into a pile of rubbish, amid the matchsticks of the aristocracy. She clubbed me over the head, and when I awoke she was singing me one of those gloomy ballads of which all the more suicidal minstrels seem so irritatingly fond.”

Tarquin stared up at Winifred in disbelief and then back down to the little wooden celebrity.

“Forgive me if I need a bit of clarification,” he said, “but who’s putting on your voice right now?”

“Winifred. Of course. Who else would it be? Somebody’s got to do my voice, and surely you don’t think she’d kidnap my puppeteer as well. That would be daft. Who’d want a puppeteer covered in aristocratic matchsticks?”

“Yes, but…” Tarquin looked up into the doorway to see Winifred holding out the wooden marionette cross and wearing a sour face to better get into character.

“Don’t look at her! The last thing you want to do is attract her attention. Listen, I need your help. I need you to help me escape.”

“But surely…” Tarquin didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t see anything about the puppet’s predicament that appealed to his sense of reason.

“It’s all very strange, I know,” Antony went on. “If the captive object of my affection happened to be a marionette, I’d just exercise my absolute control over the stupid thing to make the feelings mutual. But she didn’t. Just like a damnable woman, though, isn’t it?”

“Well that seems a terribly sexist thing to say.”

“Of course it is! Because I’m a terrible sexist! Surely you’re familiar with my reputation for misogyny. It’s why I’m so popular with the ladies. The wooden ones and the real ones. If you want a wench to eat out of your hand, treat her like absolute shite. Works every time.”

“Again, that’s rather sexist, and in light of your, you know, your current situation, I should think you’d be a bit more open-minded about women.”

Antony Spelt bounced passionately about the ground. “Oh I hate them now more than ever! When they go kidnapping you, it tends not to do much in the way of advancing their cause.”

“But I would have thought, uh, since she’s controlling your every move, your every thought, you know, her views might rub off on you or something.” Tarquin could scarcely contain his incredulity as he glanced again up at Winifred, who seemed lost in the persona of her little abductee.

“All that’s rubbing off on me are the hundreds of vermin she’s infested with.”

“I remember the vermin well,” Tarquin said with ponderous unease.

“Hey!” said Winifred. “I heard that!”

“Quiet, whore!” shouted Antony Spelt. “We’re talking here! Just us blokes! Speak only when spoken to! Take your shoes off! Gestate my children! And where’s my bloody supper?”

“Well I was just…” Winifred ricocheted back and forth between personalities so quickly, Tarquin was certain he heard her doing both voices at once.

“You were just nothing! Now get into that kitchen and make me something to eat!”

“Th—, there isn’t a kitchen,” Winifred said. “But I suppose I could try to fashion a light supper with my free arm…”

“Don’t suppose; do! Now… where was I? Ah yes. Kidnapped.”

Tarquin stood up and leaned in close to Winifred.

“Are you going to let him speak to you that way?”

“Oh, I don’t mind so much. He is a celebrity after all. I’m lucky to have him, and I really ought to remember that before I go forgetting my place.”

“Lucky to have—? Luck had nothing to do with it! You kidnapped the little twat!”

“Hey!” said Antony Spelt. “I heard that!”

“Well it’s true!” said Tarquin, crouching. “And it looks to me as though you have it better here than you ever did in your life in the theatre. Why the devil would you want to escape?”

Tarquin had a point. Apart from the homelessness and the vermin and the miserable living conditions, the little wooden chauvinist had to admit it was nice having a woman who would willingly lend herself to his demands. Even if she was ultimately the one making them. He stood clumsily still as he searched himself for a plausible retort.

“Look, I can’t be tied down to just one woman! And besides, the Squidmate Ink Pageant is set to begin the day after tomorrow, and I mustn’t disappoint the hundreds of children expecting me to perform. The pageant can’t carry on without me. It’s the highlight of the Accidentally Setting Fire to the Holiday Evergreen Ceremony.”

“You’re right.” Tarquin had stumbled into the one mess that could have made him forget his own plans for escape. He couldn’t just sit idly by and let Winifred ruin Squidmate.

“Let me think,” he said, and grimaced as he massaged his temples.

“Well be quick about it! I think I hear her coming!”

“Hear her coming? She’s been standing over you the entire time!”

“Antony, darling, is that you?” said Winifred, looking quizzically to her right and to her left.

“Of course it’s bloody him! You’re doing the voice you’re asking about… I mean, it’s all the same person: you!” Tarquin threw up his arms. “Fine. It doesn’t matter. I’ll just come up with a plan and get this over with. I suppose I could shove her to the ground now and grab you and run away…”

“Well I’m not in such a hurry as all that,” said Antony Spelt.

“What?”

“As you said, I do have it rather good. And the sex is incredible. Unquestionably the best sex I’ve ever had. I don’t feel quite ready to give it up just yet. Maybe you could rescue me the day after tomorrow or something.”

“Winifred is a terrible lover,” said Tarquin. “I should know. I’m the island’s leading expert on sexual cluelessness.”

“Well… she has genitals at least, which is more than I can say for myself.”

“Look, I don’t care about your genitals!”

“Good, because there’s nothing to care about,” the puppet said smugly.

“Fine! Your lack of genitals then. The simple fact is, I can’t wait two days to rescue you. The day after tomorrow I’ll either be dead or out to sea.”

“Then I’m afraid, dear boy, you will have ruined Squidmate for everyone.”

“Here now, what’s all this about ruining Squidmate?” came a voice. Tarquin swung round and froze. His eyes went large and a lump formed in his throat.

Leaning against the back door of a vacant shop, a balding chap in a lion-embossed red tabard chewed mindlessly on a piece of holiday cake. A patrolman Tarquin didn’t recognize. He brushed a few crumbs from his uniform and hoisted a small crossbow over his shoulder as he ambled toward Tarquin and the puppet.

A lump formed in the throat of the lump that had just formed in Tarquin’s throat, and even though he hadn’t been drinking any, he sprayed tea from his mouth onto the guard’s face.

With a scowl the guard wiped the tea from his eyes.

“Ruining Squidmate and tea spraying, eh? Both are punishable by a night in the pillory, and I’m apt to give you another just for… Hang on!”

A wide smile spread over the guard’s face.

Tarquin coughed and attempted to obscure his features by scratching his forehead. This was it. He’d been made. He was done for.

“Listen,” said the guard, “don’t take this the wrong way, but where did you get such a splendid pair of trousers?”

Tarquin knitted his brow.

“Pardon?” he said, cloaking his voice in gravelly coughs and tipping his head toward the ground.

“Those stripes! They’re quite fetching. Why, if it wasn’t already Squidmate I’d rush right over to the tailor’s and commission several pair to give as gifts. Wherever did you get them?”

Another pepper of coughs. “I… I don’t recall.”

“Well no matter. I’d take good care of them if I were you. And tend to that cough while you’re at it. The sick bed is no place to spend Squidma— Hang on again! The more I look at them, the more I think I recognize these trousers. Yes, I know them. I know them from somewhere. Are you sure you don’t recall where you got them?”

Careful not to raise it, Tarquin shook his head.

“Very well. I’m sure it’ll come to me sooner or later. Off you go! With trousers like those you’re sure to have a Merry Squidmate.”

Tarquin took several steps down the alley and threw a confused frown over his shoulder to see the guard smiling, nodding and waving goodbye.

He turned away again. But here it was. He could feel it like an arrow through the back. Behind him it began to dawn on the guard that the trousers he so effusively admired were, in fact, the standard issue striped pantaloons of the Pigwench City Guard and the very trousers he was wearing himself.

“Halt!”

Tarquin turned round. The constable stood trembling with his crossbow trained on Tarquin’s head. But where had Antony Spelt gone? Tarquin searched the periphery of his vision for the puppet.

In the darkness of the doorway he spied Winifred. She pressed her captive to her chest with a hand cupped over his mouth. Though they were merely painted on, Tarquin could swear the puppet’s eyes were bigger and his expression more desperate. Winifred gave him a jostle to make it appear he was struggling.

“Right, what’s going on here, doppelgänger?” said the guard, squinting down the sight of his crossbow.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” said Tarquin.

“Don’t play coy with me,” said the guard. “It’s evident someone has dressed you up like me in order to confuse me as to which is which.”

“Which… you is you?”

“Pulling the old double-switch on me again!” The guard went steely-eyed. “Well I’m not falling for it, not this time! I’m me. I’m the real one.”

“You mean, just because we have the same trousers?”

“I must admit, the resemblance is uncanny. You really had me going there for a moment, but I’m fairly confident I’m the genuine article.”

The guard lowered his crossbow and cast a puzzled stare down the alley.

“Well,” said Tarquin, backing away, “it seems you’re too clever for my disguise so I’ll just be on my—.”

“Oh but how can I be sure?” Again the guard aimed his crossbow at Tarquin’s bewildered face. “I know—I’ll ask you a question only I would know the answer to. But then if I’m not the real me, how will I know if you got it right?”

“Well you could just—.”

“No, no, I’ve got it! You ask me something that everyone but me would know, and I’ll get it wrong.”

“Help! Help, she’s a madwoman!” The artificial huskiness of Winifred’s Antony Spelt voice leapt from the doorway, followed at once by the puppet himself, who fell into a heap at Tarquin’s feet.

The suddenness of his appearance caught the guard off… well, off guard, and with a gasp he tripped backward over a stray cabbage, dropping his weapon. When it landed, the crossbow released its bolt, which cut through the air and planted itself with a wet crunch into Winifred’s arm.

“OUCH!” cried Winifred in her own voice as she dropped to her knees. “This really hurts!” Then, “This continues to really hurt!”

“Hurry!” she said, as Antony Spelt. “While she’s wounded!”

Tarquin seized the little puppet from the cobblestones and threw him at the guard, who caught him by the arms just as he had regained his footing.

The marionette apparatus dangled at the guard’s feet as he frantically flailed the puppet’s little wooden arms in his own face.

“Help! Help!” shouted the guard in his best Antony Spelt voice. “I’ve been kidnapped by a deranged stalker!”

Overcome with surprise, the guard again lost his footing.

“Who are you?” he said, toppling onto his back as he carried on flailing the puppet’s arms in his face.

“I’m Antony Spelt, man! Don’t you recognize me?” he responded in Antony’s voice. “You must help me! Please!”

The puppet continued to flog the guard in the face while the latter grimaced and tried his best to dodge the little wooden slaps.

Winifred gave a prolonged ugh and writhed her way along the ground toward the guard, who let out his own ugh before slipping back into character to give an ugh as Antony Spelt. Both of them still writhing, Winifred and the guard shared voice duties to allow each other successive turns at their own subsequent ughs. An ugh from Winifred, an ugh from Antony, an ugh from the guard, and so on.

Ugh. That one was from me. It’s all rather tedious, isn’t it? You’re welcome to insert your own ugh here if you feel so inclined.

Tarquin cast them all one last scowl before disappearing down the alley. This had easily been the low point of his day, and it was a day he’d begun by accidentally killing his brother and falling from a second story window. No telling how much worse it would get.

1. It should come as no surprise that any creature with so much ink at its disposal was bound at some point in its evolution to enjoy a thriving publishing industry, an industry which in this case came to an abrupt halt due to the 1.) scarcity of squids who cared enough about what was going on in the world to order a subscription, b.) greater scarcity of squids willing to wake up at the squid equivalent of four a.m. to swim about and chuck the morning edition at the few who did care enough, and XVI.) abject failure of the editorial staff to grasp the concepts of news or paper.

2. Here I’m merely employing the word as a metaphor for Tarquin’s frailty, but an explanation is in order lest you think it anachronistic. Apart from a lone prototype expended by the puffin in the opening sentence of chapter one, matches themselves would not be invented for centuries. Matchsticks, however, the headless wooden stalks, were quite popular among the aristocracy, who found them exceedingly useful on such occasions as they needed something worthless to throw onto a pile of rubbish.